


where montparnasse cares too much about his clothing

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Mutual Masturbation, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. </p>
<p>short quick and dirty thing with grinding and Eponine being bossy and Montparnasse being a kinky little fuck</p>
<p>also, they're both probably in their mid/late teens at this point, this is likely a little before book events (where Eponine is probably sixteen and Montparnasse is probably nineteen so)</p>
            </blockquote>





	where montparnasse cares too much about his clothing

Of course Montparnasse’s only complaint, when Éponine winds his cravat around her fist and tightens it, gripping close to the knot, until his words are choked and his face flushed, is – “You are ruining the silk!” he says indignantly, and bats at her hands. But she only puts her other hand on his chest, presses him harder against the wall, and gives the cravat another twist.

“You’re a very pretty boy, ‘Parnasse,” she says, watching the color mount in his face, “and you dress very fine, but I think there are other uses for these nice clothes –”

“Ah, but you do not need to mar them so,” Montparnasse pleads, voice strangled. He has hold of her wrists, now, but he does not move to pull her hands away, and though no doubt he is humoring her, acting like his narrow frame is not fully capable of breaking her grasp – well, he has his head tilted up, exposing the line of his slender neck, his throat ripe for the tasting – and Éponine feels a funny sort of hunger in her, like she is a cat with a moth pinned under her claws, ready to toy with it.

Éponine slides in closer, then, nips a sharp kiss under Montparnasse’s jaw, nudges a leg between his, rubs her thigh against the hardness pressing at the fine fabric of his trousers. “I could do worse,” she says, as Montparnasse grinds back and lets out a little choked noise, “I could have you like this –” She slips a hand between their bodies, grasps the outline of Montparnasse’s cock, and rubs at it through the cloth. The strange mischief taking her is prickling in her skin, and it is with great relish and recklessness that she says, “If you came in your clothes, what a mess that would be, ‘Parnasse, and a devil of a time you’d have getting the stain out!”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Montparnasse moves as if to throw her off, at last – but Éponine tightens the cravat with a sharp twist of her hand; his hands leap to his throat, slim fingers closing over Éponine’s. His face is red, his parted lips redder. The noise that escapes his lips is more like the outline of a sound, cut off by the cloth about his neck.

“I’d dare.” She gives his cock another rough caress through the cloth. “I’m not afraid of you.” Montparnasse’s eyes are wide and he does not pry her fingers away, though his breath is coming in faint and struggling, and his prick is thick and hard under her fingers; the sight of him, caught between pleasure and distress, pools heat between Éponine’s legs. She leans forward and kisses Montparnasse, then; his lips are thick and his tongue is lazy, and all the while her fist is white-knuckled on his cravat, pushing under his chin, keeping his head upright though no doubt the blood is throbbing heavy within it.

Éponine pulls back and palms at his cock again, and feels him shudder and try to push her hand away; she hears the beginnings of what could be a “no,” or a plea, or a beg – with a laugh, she gives his cravat a gentle tug. “Do not fret!” she says, almost cheerfully, “I will not make you ruin your good cloth like that, no –” Her fingers are nimble; she draws Montparnasse’s cock from his trousers. “I’ll be nice. Go on, bring yourself off.”

She shifts a little to make room for his hand as he wriggles his hand between their bodies and takes hold of his prick. In doing so, Éponine grinds a little against his leg, and the firm line of ‘Parnasse’s thigh is a welcome pressure, even through her skirts. She rocks again, begins to rut on his thigh in short, stuttering jolts of her hips, the pleasure mounting with each brief thrust, and braces her hand on Montparnasse’s shoulder, pulling the cravat still tighter – she can hear the quick slide of his hand on his cock, and the faint, struggling breaths he takes.

Montparnasse’s cheeks grow blotchy, his parted lips look bruised, his eyes are wide as Éponine pulls the cravat ever tighter, using both hands now. ‘Parnasse’s face contorts, he strains, and his mouth opens ever wider in a desperate struggle for air – he comes, the muscles in his neck cording out tight against the constriction, and the sound that escapes him is only the barest ghost of a cry, choked by Éponine’s last harsh twist of his cravat.

At the end of his convulsions, Éponine loosens her hold on his cravat, finally relieving the tension on Montparnasse’s throat, and the breath he sucks in twists his face in a different kind of ecstatic relief. She can feel his legs quivering, his thigh trembles between her legs, and with another few thrusts against it – she is coming too, gasping, clinging to ‘Parnasse’s shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

When her vision clears, Montparnasse has lifted his hand from his cock and is surveying it with some faint, dazed distaste. It is slick with thick strands of his come; no doubt he had made sure to trap his spending so none would spill on his trousers.

Though satiation sits heavy and warm low in her belly, the urge to play with ‘Parnasse a little is still strong. “You ought to clean up after yourself,” Éponine says, taking hold of one wrist, and lifts it to Montparnasse’s mouth, slipping the tip of a finger between his lips before he can react.

His eyebrows rise, and he removes the finger, the tip sliding out with a pop, resisting the push of Éponine’s hand.

“Perhaps a handkerchief would be better suited to the task,” he says, voice hoarse.

She laughs. “You’ll clean them,” she says, pushing his fingers back into his mouth, “or I will wipe them all over your pretty waistcoat, see if I don’t.”

Montparnasse’s eyes flash and he looks like he might curse her – but her hand is still tight on his cravat, and after a moment Montparnasse drops his eyes and sucks his fingers, one by one, until they are spotless, and kissing him has a strange taste – like salt, but bitter, and underlying it all is the sweetness of triumph.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first attempt at het after literally everything I've written being about two dicks and you can probably tell from how I didn't even try to talk about vaginas in any way shape or form hhhhhh oops


End file.
